"Aaaaahhhhnnn… nggghhh…"
The sound was ripped from her. He filled her completely, a perfect fit. The squeeze, the fluttering ripples and spasms that greeted him… different.
"Fuck, Cecilia…" Eastiel growled. "Was this… was this what Brother Oathran felt… that night…?"
He'd severed their Sense Sharing then. He'd never known the precise sensations the dragon and the wolf had wrung from her.
Cecilia shook her head against the silken cushion, her hair a wild, golden halo. "He's… not angled… this much…" she managed to pant.
"Oh…?" Eastiel gasped, the sound part pain, part amusement. His angle. His discovery.
Then he moved.
THRUST! THRUST—THRUST—SLAP! SLAM!
What followed was a series of deep, piston-driven drives that stole the breath from her lungs and hammered the divan against the stone floor. The slaps of skin on skin were obscenely loud in the stately room.
"Aaahh! Sssh! Ah ah ah ah—" Her cries were fractured, each impact punctuating a syllable.
